


worship me

by meios



Series: kinktober 2017 / goretober 2017 [6]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, Blood, Body Worship, Cannibalism, Goretober 2017, Guns, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kinktober 2017, M/M, Monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 11:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12320166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meios/pseuds/meios
Summary: "worship me," says jason."yes," says tim.





	worship me

**Author's Note:**

> kinktober is stupidly hard for me to do since i honestly hate writing outright porn, so i've decided to switch to goretober. this still matched the day 6 prompt of kinktober though: body worship, so i've included that.
> 
> i mixed goretober prompts, though.
> 
> days 7, 8, and 9: guns / monsters / cannibalism

The angel bites down into him and tears away the flesh, chews the sinew that clings to the underside of the carcass like an animal may. Surrounding him are feathers, black as oil, and when he spreads his wings, they are tinged with the leather of bats. He is falling apart, this angel, his limbs melting away into wax and afterthoughts, and as the boy shudders beneath him, a cross around his neck, the angel smiles.

 

“Worship me,” he whispers, and the boy does just that, reaching up with what little strength he has and attaching his mouth to the angel’s, licked-clean bones replacing hands replacing fingers that trawl through the angel’s hair, black and white like a skunk’s. The tang of blood on the boy’s teeth is akin to wine, and when the angel, Jason, pulls back, it’s with that same blood forming a bridge between them, all spittle and slick.

 

“Tim,” the angel admonishes, guiding the boy’s head to the peaks of his chest, exhales sharply when teeth meet the hard nubs of his nipples. He eats and is eaten, and they have done this for so long, so often, that the pain rarely surprises the two of them anymore. “Tim, baby boy, you’re doin’ so well for me.”

 

Tim hums softly, and in the dark of the bedroom, his skin is nearly translucent. What hasn’t been bitten away and stained in red barely leaves anything to the imagination, like a meal wearing wrapping, clothing, like a present for Christmas morning. Jason brings long fingernails, claws almost, to the boy’s back and scratches up, licks along the edges to catch the fragments of flesh wounds to clean them, swallows. “The world,” he mumbles, “the universe. I would give you everything.”

 

“Then do it,” says Tim, drawing away, yet praying with his hands on the angel’s skin.

 

And Jason, God forgive him, can’t help but cup the boy’s face, re-watch the things that sent him to this bed, to this boy who indulges him in the most hellish of his vices, to this boy who would make him fall. (Gunshots move to bullets move to a hole in the boy’s throat and it’s obliterated and yet not and with his hands scrabbling to put pressure on the wound he can see the gunman’s face and he can swallow around his father’s grin and the way the chamber straddles his temple and if he does not die tonight, God, he will go back to church and pray harder than he’s ever prayed.)

 

When Jason kisses Tim, it’s with a reverence that none can deny, a way that almost puts a true voice back into the boy’s mouth instead of the grasp of a rasp of a way of talking that he has now. Eyes wide open, they stare at each other, kiss each other, as if preparing for the rapture that will take them home.

 

“Worship me,” says Jason, and Tim is healed, blood gone.

 

“Yes,” says Tim, and they start again.


End file.
